


residual

by hartbroken (superlawyer)



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: 'blood' is used as a framework and not in a sexual context, Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Complete, Depression, Explicit Language, First work in fandom, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, I really and truly apologise, I think that about covers it?, M/M, Memory, Navel-Gazing, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, far too meta-riddled and figurative to be fiction, in-universe, repeated references to death, self-indulgent explorations of angst here (sorry), tonal shifts everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3676647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlawyer/pseuds/hartbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stages of Eggsy's relationship to and with Harry were a lot like blood. The stages of his progressing grief, too, are a lot like the stages of blood, as it dries.<br/>A third-person limited exploration of the events of Eggsy's life spanning from well before V-Day, to a few months after it. In that span of time, the world goes to shit, and so does he; the world must readjust, and, truly, so must he.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. teal

**Author's Note:**

> True artists aren't supposed to explain their work, or something like that, but I feel this warrants some kind of explanation: this monstrosity was inspired by hearing a passing comment regarding the oxidation of blood. That somehow mentally coupled with overanalysing the canonical angst in Kingsman, over and over, until, later that day, I wrote the first installments to what would soon become a multichaptered work.  
> Please be advised: death is discussed at-length throughout this, so, steer clear, if need be. 
> 
> Thanks, and here's to a Kingsman sequel with hopefully a happier outcome for these guys than what we've been left with at the moment!

"In our line of work, it is imperative that you not be squeamish at the sight of blood," Merlin started, hands customarily locked behind his back as he paced.

A set of brushed stainless steel rolling carts stood in front of him, their surfaces covered by more decorative, shining, sterling silver lids. He lifted the lids off of the carts. Each cart contained an assortment of different objects: jewelry; watches; squares of wallpaper and carpet samples; ceramic and glass tiles; fabric swatches; bullets, and metal blades, all stained to some extent.

"Sometimes, you'll find yourself in situations in which you need to observe areas carefully. That observation can include -- and often has included -- the careful observation of bloodstains on furniture, clothing, personal effects, or skin. Though they may seem insignificant, these little details have the capacity to impart useful information to you, or, at best, intelligence," He continued, stopping his stride in front of Eggsy.

"Do you have something on your mind, Unwin?" The other nominees, in varying degrees of subtlety, craned their necks toward the blond at the farthest right of their line-up.

Eggsy's beam diminished to a more modest grin.

"Nothin', sir. Jus' hearing you talk about this stuff makes me feel like I'm on my way to bein' a proper detective, or something. Not only a spy," He replied. "Like Batman, even."

In the middle of the line-up, Charlie guffawed, barely under his breath. Roxy shook her deferentialy bowed head, the tiniest hint of a smile playing up at the corners of her lips. The few others remaining, Charlie's little lot, whispered feverishly to their leader.

Merlin sighed.

"If that what it takes for you to take this seriously, then, sure." Merlin said. "I'm more partial to Sherlockian detectives myself, but, again: sure. To frame this in Unwin's terms, your detective skills should be like those of Batman's for you to be a valuable asset to this organisation."

Eggsy simpered. He tried not to look too self-satisfied at hearing Merlin acknowledge his reference.

* * *

 

_"To start with the obvious: in the body, blood, as seen through veins and skin, of course, can seemingly look anywhere from cool blue, to jade green, to barely noticeable, depending on the particular person's skin tone."_

 

"This place is massive," Eggsy said, normally narrowed-eyes widened as he shuffled behind his new mentor, playing catch-up. "This where you live?"

"No," Harry replied, briskly leading him through the expansive, grassy grounds surrounding the estate. "I live in the city."

"Why? This place is tops! You got air that's actually clean, a blue sky with no smog clouds hangin' around, trees..." Eggsy approached the thick line of manicured trees to the edge of the building, then stopped in front one of them, inhaling deeply. "God, I'm not one o' them nature types, or somethin' like that, but fresh air feels so, so good." He wasn't exaggerating; the air was especially crisp, scattered rows of lush emerald-headed trees doing their very best to purify the area.

"Good lord, you act as if you've never experienced being outdoors before," Harry teased, back leaned against the building, signature tortoiseshell glasses over his eyes, tinted lenses obscuring his line-of-sight. Arms folded over his chest, and umbrella rested against the wall beside him, he looked too cool to play babysitter, or, at the least, made an effort to effortlessly convey his coolness.

Eggsy turned to face the man. He rolled his eyes at him.

"'Course I been outside before. But, believe it or not, I haven't had much opportunity to go camping, or hiking, o' whateva, in my life."

"If you do make it to being a Knight, you'll soon come to regret ever having such desires," Harry stated. "Without saying too much to spoil the fun for you, let's just say that my current concepts of recreation decidedly do not include sleeping outdoors, in the elements, or navigating all kinds of terrain, for days on end, with nothing but a meager backpack."

"That's only 'cause you're posh," Eggsy rebutted, playfully sneering. "I could get by fine. That famous bloke who's always drinkin' his own piss? I'd outdo him."

Harry sighed, breathing out through his mouth as much as Eggsy had breathed in the air around them. Eggsy looked pleased as punch with himself for eliciting such a dramatic reaction from his elder.

"'Bear' Grylls is nothing more than the product of media sensationalism, for one. And, as the idiom goes: 'famous last words,' Eggsy. Now, quit lingering about, and follow me. We've much to do today, little city mouse." He resumed walking to the back of the estate, umbrella in hand.

Eggsy lingered by the tree for a moment more. He plucked a perfectly shaped, waxy, myrtle green leaf from one of its branches, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and hurried after Harry. 


	2. red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy gets the closest he'll ever be to Harry, and, then, suddenly, the farthest away he'll ever be from him. Life is funny like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bulk of this is very NSFW. It's also, to put it in a nice, and also kind of creepy, way, fairly "naughty." Buckle up, I guess.

_"Fresh out of the body, venous blood is a dark red. It generally flows freely. Arterial blood, which tends to 'spurt' or 'burst' out of the body, like in those absurd Tarantino films, is a much brighter shade of red. Knowing the difference is key; a venous wound can be the result of an accident, but an arterial wound is seldom accidental."_

 

The walls of Harry's office were carmine.

Plastered over the paint were precisely tacked grids of tabloid front pages from years past. Eggsy scanned over these covers, initially puzzled. After elucidation from Harry, their significance became much clearer, as matters tended to become whenever Harry explained them. The man remained sat in his chair, unnervingly casual in appearance, hair a little less neat than usual, his suit jacket already tucked away in his wardrobe. His torso was framed by the leather straps of his gun holster, the holster a symbolic reminder of his constant potential for lethality. 

But there, at that moment, with Harry sat at his desk, his back leaned into the chair, head tilted slightly, inquisitively, toward Eggsy, he looked less like the popular imaginings of trained killers, or secret agents, and more... grounded. Human.

"So, do you have any other questions? This'll likely be the best opportunity you'll ever have to ask me," Harry prompted, drawing Eggsy out of his acute focus on the man. "I vow not to pass judgment on anything you ask. Most questions, within reason, will be regarded as valid."

Eggsy eyed the crystal decanter across the office from Harry's desk.

"Can I have a drink?"

"Well, can you?" Harry smirked.

Eggsy groaned.

"Oh, come off it with the primary schoolteacher tactics," He said. " _May_ I have a drink, dear Mr. Hart?"

"You may proceed."

Eggsy moved to the table and poured himself a glass of scotch. Single malt. Heads above the boozy swill of his recent adolescence. Before he replaced the geometric stopper, he paused, back turned to Harry.

"May you share a drink with me?"

"A bit of a syntactically clunky way to ask that, I think," Harry quipped. "Regardless - I'd love one."

Eggsy shrugged, and poured another glass. He turned on his heel, full of theatrics, and set one of the glasses down on the desk. He stood next to Harry.

"Ca-- _may_ we have a toast?"

"Okay, now it's becoming grating," Harry shook his head, lips pursed. Eggsy laughed. Harry took the glass in his well-worn hand and inspected it, passively. "Yes, Eggsy. I suppose a toast is appropriate."

"Is any of this appropriate?" Eggsy countered. "Drinking with your charge? I mean, really, Galahad. How shameful."

Harry glared up at him from under his brow. His jaw clenched. The contours of his face took on a more jagged appearance, all hard lines and chiaroscuro shadow in the dim light.

"Whoa, whoa, relax, relax," Eggsy motioned with his free hand. "You gotta know by now I'm not some code-of-conduct-clutchin' creep who'd give a single shit about some dumb rule like that, if there is one."

"'Code-of-conduct-clutching-creep.' Alliteration. Very nice. Have you considered writing poetry?" Harry mused, inspiring from his glass. "You, my 'charge,' were witness to the world-renowned 'Galahad Glare.' It is but one of my many signature, secret super-spy talents."

"'Signature secret super-spy.' Alliteration. Very nice. Have you tried poetry, ol' chap?" Eggsy invoked Harry's RP accent. He grinned at Harry's quirked eyebrow. "I know a thing or two about a thing or two. But not as much as you, I reckon -- you prolly picked up a lot of random shit from being a Knight, right?"

"Certainly. Like how to give a toast." Harry segued. He held up his glass and cleared his throat. "To Eggsy: may God bless him."

Eggsy made a face, and remarked, "Some toast." He began to drain the glass before Harry's hand grabbed his arm. Eggsy lowered his arm almost immediately.

"What?" Eggsy asked. He licked his lips to collect whatever few drops remained; he wasn't quite sure why he made eye contact with Harry while doing so.

"You do not drink Highland Park like it's some lite beer from a corner shop," Harry chided. He brought his glass to his lips, and took a long sip. When he swallowed, Eggsy noted how his Adam's apple bobbed, how the line of his throat shifted.

"You have to drink it in, really taste it on your tongue, appreciate how it feels in your mouth," Harry murmured.

Eggsy clutched his glass tighter. He stared at Harry as he took another drink. From beyond the faceted rim of the glass, he noticed that Harry was watching him. He lolled his head back slowly, draining the glass. He set the glass down on the desk gently. Harry's eyes trailed after the glass, following his every motion.

Following suit, Harry started to finish his glass, before Eggsy tugged at his sleeve. Harry swiveled his chair to face him, brow furrowed.

"Wha--"

Eggsy leaned down and kissed him. He could taste the scotch on his lips -- somehow, it tasted sweeter. He pressed into the kiss urgently, incensed, like a bull charging at a matador after far too much provocation. He could hear the quiet clink of Harry's glass against the desktop, and then, a moment later, Harry's arms were around his waist, pulling him in his lap, Eggsy's slim thighs straddling Harry's. Eggsy held Harry by his jaw, leveraging the kiss deeper, pushing his tongue into his mouth. Rolling his tongue against Harry's, he could definitely taste the scotch, as honeyed as Harry's voice, as honeyed as his arms around him, as honeyed as the heat that boiled in his chest, and burned at his cheeks and neck.

Harry withdrew one of his arms from Eggsy's waist, then pressed a hand to his chest. Eggsy broke away, chest rising, falling, rising, breaths as heavy as the air around them.

"Don't tell me 'we shouldn't.' _Please_ don't tell me that," Eggsy pleaded, toying absently with the end of Harry's woven tie.

Harry sighed, breathy, not shallow and exasperated as was typical, but weightier, from the hollow of his chest.

"Eggsy..."

"You can't kiss me like that an' then go on an' tell me we can't, or that it's wrong, or that it breaks the 'Order,' or some other weak excuse," Eggsy protested. "Honestly."

"I don't want to jeopardise your future. You've made it this far in the process, and I don't want you squandering this opportunity..." Harry's voice trailed off, lost in thought, as Eggsy craned down to suck at his neck.

He pulled back, the loss of suction releasing a faint popping sound.

"It'll be our little secret then, yeah?" He murmured into Harry's ear. "'Cept for that hickey. Sorry."

"Eggsy."

"Wait, wait, wait," Eggsy fidgeted, sliding himself down and back in Harry's lap, strategic. "You said earlier I could ask anything I wanted. So... do you want to fuck me? That's my question."

Harry's face flushed crimson.

"Tell me," Eggsy continued, still toying with Harry's tie. "Be honest."

"Yes," Harry nearly growled. " _Shit._ Yes, I do. I want to. Are you happy now?"

"I will be..."

* * *

 

Harry led Eggsy to his bedroom as if he was leading him on another tour of the estate. He kept a few steps in front and walked purposefully, looking straight ahead, hands to himself. However, during the estate tour, his tie was not hanging loose around his neck, his shirt was not half-unbuttoned, his hair had not fallen in front of his eyes, and his stiff upper lip was absolutely not kissed swollen.

When they made it past the doorframe, he snaked his arms around Eggsy's waist, and pulled them both to bed, striding backwards until the backs of his legs hit the mattress. Harry fell back onto the bed, Eggsy falling over with him, legs twined with legs. Eggsy pushed himself up on his hands, at both sides of Harry's head, and chuckled softly.

"What's funny?" 

"I like this view. Makes you seem more vulnerable," Eggsy said, literally looking down at Harry.

Harry tsked. Eggsy watched his face for a few beats. He observed minute scars he hadn't been able to see clearly before, and how much larger the pupils were in his eyes.

"If I may be so bold," Harry stared up at Eggsy. "You are gorgeous."

Eggsy blushed. He felt again like a bull, Harry the dashing matador waving swathes of red in his face.

He pushed himself upright, back on Harry's thighs, his own legs bracketing Harry's. With deft, light hands, Harry's belt was unclasped in a moment, then the fly of his slacks came undone. His fingertips ghosted against Harry's skin as he edged the waistband of his boxer-briefs down his hips. Harry hissed, cool bedroom air meeting his bare skin, then exhaled, all steam, when Eggsy's hand wrapped around his cock.

"Got a new question for you," He said, coiling his fingers around the base. "What do you want to do to me?"

Harry swallowed thickly. He carded a hand through his hair. Eggsy once more found himself ogling the throat he'd marked up minutes prior.

"You thought about this before, haven't you?" Eggsy goaded, stroking at his length as he spoke. "More than once? I wager you started imaginin' things not too long after you met me at the station. Come on. Lay your fantasies on me."

"All right. Fine. I oblige." Harry grit out, eyes half-lidded. "I want to fuck your gorgeous mouth, then watch you fuck yourself on me."

It was Eggsy's turn to get flustered. His skin burned. He hastily unzipped his jacket, and tugged off his shirt, flinging both on the floor.

Harry nodded toward the foot of the bed, "Get on your knees."

Eggsy slid down off of his lap, and off of the bed. He got on his knees, back to the foot of the bed, arms behind his back. Harry rose to his feet. He sauntered in front of Eggsy. Eggsy looked up through his long eyelashes at him. Harry held his head, one hand around the back of his neck, the other tangled into his hair. He pushed the head of his cock against Eggsy's lips, parted and glistening and pouty. Through his lips, Eggsy lapped at it, locking eyes with Harry.

"Open your mouth," Harry murmured. Eggsy opened as wide as his jaw could allow, wincing as Harry thrust his hips forward gradually, dragging more of his cock past Eggsy's lips, broad hands keeping him firmly in place. Harry pushed in until he hit the back of his throat. He drew his cock back out, almost entirely out of his mouth, then forced it back in, faster, tightening the grasp he had around the nape of Eggsy's neck. Eggsy mewled around him. He lifted his head up as much as he could, and locked eyes with him. Harry groaned. He pulled out, then pushed back in hard enough to make Eggsy gag, then back out, and back in, almost to the hilt, repeatedly. The echoes in the room were filthy: Harry swore, voice a register lower, smokier-bordering-on-smoldering; Eggsy vocalised around him, no longer deliberately, strained noises wholly genuine; the explicit wet sound of the act itself, of slick motion.

A few thick strands of saliva escaped the suction ring of Eggsy's lips. Harry glanced down at the younger man, blew out a throaty sigh, and slid his cock out of his mouth, thin strings of precome and spit connected between the head and Eggsy's shined lips dissipating.

"You're unreal," Harry whispered, running a finger down Eggsy's cheek and jaw affectionately.

Eggsy licked his lips clean.

"Fuck me," He rasped, batting his lashes. "I'll say 'please' if I got to -- please."

In a blur, Harry knelt down, hoisted Eggsy up by the arms, and pushed him back on the bed. Eggsy blinked at him, awestruck.

"Thank you for being polite," Harry remarked, sitting on the edge of the bed. He carefully unlaced and removed his Oxfords.

"Hold on," Eggsy said, voice rendered hoarse. "Could you keep your clothes on? Besides, y'know, the stuff in the way."

Harry turned to face him, raising an eyebrow.

"Why do you ask?"

"Okay, bein' honest here: you look very fucking sexy half-dressed like this," Eggsy replied, blushing at the admission, as if he had anything to be self-conscious about, considering what they had just done. "An' I want the cleaners to wonder how all these stains got on your nice duds."

"You're filthy," Harry teased. Eggsy smiled.

Harry settled between Eggsy's thighs and rubbed at the backs of them.

"Well, I don't want you soiling your hip little streetwear, here, so..."

Eggsy nodded, and, with Harry's help, shimmied out of his loose jeans, kicking them off the bed.

"'Commando,' huh?" Harry noted, smirking. Eggsy whined.

"Can we chat about my fashion habits later? Dunno if you can tell or not, but I'm so hard it fuckin' hurts."

Harry didn't stop smirking as he leaned over Eggsy to rifle through his nightstand drawer. He retrieved a bottle, and a black foil packet printed in gold with a familiar roundel.

"Waitaminute," Eggsy started. "Is that a bloody Kingsman condom?"

Harry coated his fingers with the silicone-based lubricant, replying, mock-dryly, "I'm not yet at liberty to discuss that matter with you."

"But you're gonna roll it on and fu-- _fuck_." Eggsy's breath hitched. Two of Harry's fingers were in him, at the knuckle. Harry chuckled, voice like dry red wine: adult, sharp, moody, intoxicating. With his other hand, he stroked Eggsy's inner thigh, gentle touches contrasting with the harsh rhythm of his fingers. He pressed a small kiss to Eggsy's abdomen while he added a third. Soft and hard; sensual and sinful; sensitive and aggressive; playful and dire -- a study in contrasts; this was what Harry Hart was, at his most essential core.

Eggsy angled his hips toward and against Harry's fingers as the man worked, moving however he had to, needing to get more. After a solid minute of Eggsy's attempts at grinding down on his fingers, Harry snickered, not unlike Satan incarnated. He slid all of his fingers out, dragged Eggsy, by the hips, down the bed to him, hooked his legs around his waist, bracketed him with his arms, and drove into him.

"Shit, you are _flexible_ ," Harry hissed.

Eggsy could only nod in response, wide eyes wider, parted lips fallen open. He grabbed at the bedspread, fistfuls of muted poppy Egyptian cotton in his hands, knuckles whiter by the second. Harry took him like he meant it, like this was a vital mission for him to complete, his thrusts precise, jarring, forceful. Eggsy bit his lip, trying not to scream, but groaned through his teeth, despite his effort.

"You're -- an -- angel," Harry grunted, head dipped low. He slowed his pace, sinking deeper into Eggsy, and pressed until Eggsy moaned. He withdrew, then rammed back in, saccharine words of praise tumbling out of his mouth punctuating his thrusts: "wonderful, so pretty, love watching you, perfect, beautiful, doll." Sweet again contrasted with sinister, in how he kept hitting the area that made Eggsy want to cry, and loomed over him. Eggsy couldn't look him square in the eyes anymore, opting instead to focus on the ceiling so as to not explode.

"Look at me," Harry commanded, slowing again. "Tell me what you want."

"Ugh, fuck, you know what I want..."

Harry stilled. Eggsy whimpered.

"Tell me."

"I want to come. Pleasepleaseplease." Eggsy made eye contact with him again, the exchange intense, the man's dark irises blown darker.

Harry wrapped an arm under Eggsy's lower back, and pulled them upright, Eggsy in his lap, the younger man's legs stretched around him wider, chests flushed together, Eggsy's cock pressed against his torso. Using one arm as support, he bounced Eggsy, who was practically boneless, by that point, save for the arms bracing around Harry's neck, in his lap, and stroked him with his spare hand.

"My little toy," Harry murmured into Eggsy's neck, stroking him faster. "Come for me, angel, come on. I want to feel it."

Eggsy nearly sobbed as he came, tension ratcheting up to an overwhelming ache, then unspooling, unraveling, washing over him, drowning him. Harry felt so full inside of him; he was around him; he mouthed hushed encouragements against his skin. Eggsy's chest heaved. His muscles spasmed, then relaxed, staggered. Through his release, Harry kept at it, though less rhythmic, his thrusts erratic, but not as frenetic.

"Come in me, please," Eggsy begged, eyes glazed, voice nothing more than fog. "Lemme have it..."

Harry clutched Eggsy's waist tight enough to leave handmarks, and fucked up into him, slamming him into his lap, over and over until he spilled into him, sucking air through his teeth, head rolled back. Eggsy grabbed his jaw, again, and kissed him, mouths moving in loose sync through the aftershocks.

Harry pulled away, then gradually pulled out, hissing, raw. He turned them around, then reclined back on the bed, bringing Eggsy with him, the blond lying half on top of him, half splayed on the bed. He smoothed through Eggsy's hair, brushing golden locks roughly back into place with his fingers.

"You fuck like a goddamned tiger," Eggsy stated, cuddling up to Harry with whatever remaining strength he could muster. Harry kissed his forehead.

"Glad I was satisfactory," Harry remarked.

"I can't believe we just shagged," Eggsy said. He made a face, feeling something trickle down his thighs. "Nevermind; we definitely did. God, Harry."

Harry glanced over, then down.

"Oh," Harry pursed his lips. "I apologise. I was lost in the moment, and forgot."

Eggsy snorted. He looked up at Harry.

"Don't stress. I'm not scarred for life by it, or anythin' like that," Eggsy replied. "It's nothing that a shower won't fix."

"On that note: stay here for the night," Harry said. "You can shower, in peace, and I can make you a proper breakfast in the morning, before I have to bring you back."

"Proper breakfast, eh? All right, I'm sold," Eggsy grinned. Harry continued playing with his hair until he fell asleep.

Eggsy, ear by his chest, listened to the sound of his heartbeat: steady, soothing, robust. He listened until he fell asleep, held in Harry's arms, kept warm and safe from the keen chill of the city in autumn.

* * *

 

The walls of Harry's office were carmine.

Eggsy sat at Harry's desk. His eyes burned. His mouth was dry. The bitter, metallic hint of nausea crept up his throat. He swallowed, and his own saliva felt like shards of broken glass scraping down his esophagus.

It was, in the grander, relative scheme of things, only a few moments ago that he talked with Harry, then drank with Harry, then kissed him, touched him, had him, slept in his arms. It was even fewer moments ago that he watched Harry cook, chatted with him about Kingsman and films and football, said goodbye to him as he left the train. In this compressed time scale, it was only a second ago that Harry chastised him, voiced his frustration with him, and then flew off across the Atlantic, over 6,000 kilometres away from him.

He could still hear the disappointment in Harry's voice ringing in his ears, coupled with the percussive distortion of the gunshot, as filtered through the muffled laptop speakers. Eyes squeezed shut, the latter sound repeated, skipping like a worn needle on cracked vinyl, until it grew deafening.

Tinnitus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toying around with common emotional associations people have with certain colors is fun. "Red" can mean a lot of things, clearly.


	3. burgundy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks post-Kentucky, the grief Eggsy so thoroughly tried to pack away starts to seep into his daily life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but the beginning of, the, well, end. Hold on.

_"As it begins to dry, fresh blood darkens to a burgundy. The origin of the blood -- venous or arterial -- has little bearing on this colour shift. As you can see from the samples, the duration of time that the blood has spent drying is the most significant factor in darkening the hue. The longer the blood has been left drying, the darker it becomes."_

Eggsy shrugged on the dressing gown, and tied it at his waist. He examined himself in the mirror, taking an inventory: scraped knuckles; a bruise on his sternum; dark circles under his eyes, a customary sight.

He slinked into the bedroom, and lay down on the bed, atop the covers, hands folded on his stomach. He scanned the ceiling, scrutinising the smoke detector. A ping. He switched his glasses on, tabbing to the audio-only communications line.

"Galaha--"

"--Please don't call me that. Not yet, at least," Eggsy said, clipped.

"Okay," Roxy replied. She paused. "Are you busy?"

Eggsy stared off in the direction of the television cabinet. A Spanish-language newsprogram featuring a discussion panel was on; the panel solemnly commemorated the lives lost, or otherwise destroyed, during the worldwide V-Day incidents.

"... _Hace dos semanas_..." The television buzzed. Eggsy hit the mute button on the remote, then shut it off completely.

"No," Eggsy answered.

"Can we talk?"

"Are _you_ busy?" Eggsy asked.

"Not really, and even if I were, need I remind you that I'm the one who was practically carried off into orbit, all while taking orders from Merlin? I think I can multitask somewhat capably," Roxy said.

Eggsy chuckled, low and abrupt.

"I haven't heard that sound in a long time," Roxy remarked.

"Hasn't been much to laugh about, these days," Eggsy stated, "'Cept for Princess IKEA, but that was a fluke. What's up, Ro--Lancelot?"

"I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. I've surmised that the Latin American region, overall, is making great progress on their recovery efforts."

"Yeah, it's not that bad. I mean, all HQ has me doing is going through the whole South American continent and breaking up anarchist type groups. It's easy work."

Roxy laughed. "Only you would regard combating guerrilla warfare as 'easy.'"

"It's violent work. It's enjoyable," Eggsy said, rubbing at his knuckles. "How's North America doing?"

"Not great. Splinter groups, rising crime rates, political unrest, attempts at succession by more than a few states and provinces, the formation of fanatic cults surrounding Valentine and the 'Gaia prophecy' -- oh, yes, it's now a 'prophecy' -- and a bit of economic chaos. In the States, Wall Street's hanging by a hair," Roxy elaborated. Eggsy nodded to himself. "'Least I only have some of the US and Mexico left to work through. Canada was a real treat."

"You been to Kentucky yet?"

A beat.

"No, not yet... only at 20 states so far, moving from the Eastern Seaboard, across west. I'm in Oregon presently, soon to move through California, which will likely take a week or two on its own to handle, not only due to the size and population... I'll have to, per HQ's orders, meet with some of the celebrities released from detainment who opted to move back there. Apparently, some of them are struggling with adjusting to this new status quo, and have requested... convenient amnesia. So, carrying the strongest stuff on me."

Eggsy scoffed.

"Forgetting -- that'd be a treat," He muttered. "Could you swing by down this way, while you're at it, and dose me, too?"

Roxy sighed.

"I wish there was a way to go back to that point in time and save him," Roxy mused. "I sorely, sorely do."

"That's the joke of it, though, innit?" Eggsy tensed. "We're these fuckin' superheroes, almost -- we can make people forget things, take on deadly assassins, foil evil plots -- but we can't do shit about death. Can't stop it, can't evade it, can't even memorialise it proper."

Silence, then heavier breathing.

"No body, no service, no grave marker," Eggsy's voice got quieter. "It's like he might well have never existed."

"It's miserable, and it grieves me to dwell on," Roxy said. "But that's our lot in life. The legacy of a Kingsman is loss, and sacrifice. It's how you and I are where we are now, and how, when we perish, those new recruits will be where they are, then."

Hot tears pooled from his tearducts, threatening to fall.

"I don't know if I can do this," Eggsy admitted faintly. "Not without..."

"Please listen to me: you saved the world. Do you understand that? You saved the world from utter destruction. Without you being a part of this organisation, _billions_ of people would have died," Roxy said. "You can do this. If nothing else, I have faith in you. I don't know if that counts for much, but it's there."

"You're too good to me, Ro-- shit -- 'Lot," Eggsy wiped away the acidic tears that streaked down his cheeks. "But, truthfully, I needed him. Need him. Still need him."

"I'm so sorry," Roxy replied.

"Yeah. Me, too."

A distant buzz.

"Oh, that's Percival. I have to go!" Roxy stated. "Please remember what I said, and know that you're not alone. Talk to you ASAP!"

End transmission.

* * *

 

 

Eggsy massaged rubbing alcohol into the bruises that bloomed across his back and arms. They merged into each other, forming constellations of moss green into ruby into violet. He sighed.

In the full-length mirror was a facsimile of Harry Hart: similar dress, similar posture, similarly parted hair. Dressing gown, squared-off shoulders, smoothed locks.

"I look like a fuckin' kid playing dress-up," Eggsy shook his head. He ducked down into the cabinet under the sink, and fished out a few bottles of Argentine red wine, purchased, with untraceable currency, from the small market down the road. With a pair of scissors, he popped the cork on one bottle, and tipped it back into his mouth. He sat in the empty bathtub, drank the bottle dry, and opened the other. He peered at his watch. It was almost 3 AM on a Saturday. Not yet filed away and compartmentalised in the back of his mind was the memory of another 3-AM-on-a-Saturday, with arms around him as he dozed off to a continuous heartbeat -- one that, as the persistent, ambient ringing sensation in his ears could attest to, was no longer in existence.

The new status quo.


	4. brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy has a nightmare, then is reminded of childhood memories as they relate to his current life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is grim. Lots of somewhat graphic discussion of death in this short one. One away from the end.

_"Special attention must be paid to blood that has dried to a brown, or dark brown. Thinner, older bloodstains can often take on this appearance, and may not be all that indistinguishable -- to the untrained eye -- from a dirt stain, or coffee stain. But bloodstains are more distinctive, and also more temperamental, than other such stains; if the blood dries on a porous surface, it can look different from material-to-material. Noting these bloodstains can give insight into the time that has elapsed since the blood was first spilt."_

A mahogany casket with ebony inlays, and gold detailing, including a roundel, was lowered into the ground. Shovels of dirt emptied out into the hole. The larger clumps crumbled upon impact, breaking apart and scattering. The shovels kept emptying, until the casket was buried, metal 'K' obscured, then smothered.

Eggsy snapped up.

Cold sweats, a heaving chest, and a heavy heart had become fixtures in his sleeping cycle. Tears seared down his face, gathering at his jawline before descending. He started to sob. That was new.

Memories of his father's service flashed into view. There had been no open casket visitation, because there was no body. As a boy, he wondered why he couldn't see his father one last time. As a man, he realised it was because the body had been desecrated, and also was not the property of his mother, or him, but of Kingsman.

When he was nine, he went through a period of fascination with death. He'd pilfer any books relating to the subject he could find, and pour over them with a flashlight under his blanket, late at night, when his mother, on certain days, would just be getting home from work. In his readings, he used to be amused whenever he'd come across full-colour photos of dark plastic bags secured over some of the bodies' heads. He learned that, for gunshot victims, suicide or otherwise, if the person had been shot in the head, when they'd arrive at the funeral parlour for preparation, there'd have to be a bag over their head. There'd be no point in attempting to beautify the person's face, because half of it might have been missing; there'd be no point in styling the person's hair, because part of their skull might be gone.

Bags on heads. The ringing sound in Eggsy's ears upticked at the recollection. Gasps. A muted thud. His own voice yelling, on its own volition, an immediate response.

Bags on heads. Uniform tortoiseshell eyeglasses folded in the chest pocket of his gown. Sneaking glimpses, first disguised as polite eye contact, then, later, rather impolite eye contact, into warm, deep brown eyes, irises mottled with tones of burnt toffee and caramel.

Bags on heads. Single malt scotch. The aroma of French pressed coffee. Night and day.

Eggsy inhaled, then exhaled, manually, mechanically. He stood, walked to the window, and drew open the curtains. Bright equatorial sun shone at him, peeking through to the room, casting light on its contents. He searched the sky. Not a cloud. He drew the curtains back over the windows.

Bags on heads. Eyes that could no longer see that sunlight, or any sunlight, at all. Skin that could no longer feel the warmth of the sun, be that beating down in South America, or peering through the Isles. Skin whose warmth he could no longer feel; skin that was carried off somewhere; skin that was possibly incinerated; skin that was possibly interred, and was meshed, anonymously, with the soil of some nondescript plot of land. The feverish heat that coursed through Eggsy subsided to a complete loss of warmth.

"The world is fucked," He muttered.


	5. black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy's grief comes to a head on another away mission, as it manifests itself more demonstratively.   
> But, out of chaos, there is closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one, and it's a long one. This, per the chapter title, gets pretty dark, at points, so, as always, take heed to the work's warnings. Thanks for making it this far, and godspeed.

_"Last on the spectrum is black. It's not common, but bloodstains, especially dried blood clots, can be so saturated that they look nearly black. If putrefaction, mold, or other certain chemical changes have occurred, then the dried blood can appear to be a truer black. The black of a bloodstain is not the black of an inkblot, so discerning the difference should be straightforward. Black bloodstains are perhaps most worrisome, given what they can imply about the scene, victim, or culprit. At their most innocuous, they represent blood that is both saturated, and that has been dried for a long time."_

 

Eggsy shrugged on his suit jacket. He adjusted the leather holster around his shoulders under it, repositioning his pistols to appear more discreet. He looked to a grayscale photo framed on the wall.

"What d'ya think?" he whispered. "Pretty clean, yeah?"

Silence.

"What do you know about modern fashion, anyway?" he rebutted. From his bed, nestled by Eggsy's, JB gave a supportive 'woof.'

"Thanks for bein' in my corner," he told the pug.

A door opened downstairs.

"Mum?" he called out. JB barked excitedly, springing to his feet.

"You're home?!" Michelle shouted. Footsteps bounded up the stairs, and then she pulled her son into a one-armed hug, Daisy in the other.

"Hiya, Daise," Eggsy kissed her on the forehead. She giggled. "And, I woulda called, but this is only a quick stopover. Gotta go to something for work way out in the country, in a few."

"What kind of something? You look dressed for a funeral," Michelle remarked. Eggsy bit the inside of his lower lip.

"Just a work event, nothing big," he said. "Not a funeral. This is the dress code, s'all."

"Oh, all right... well, enjoy, and please be careful! I worry, y'know," Michelle doted. Daisy nodded, well-timed, or perhaps, emphatically.

"I know; I know," Eggsy nodded. "I hope I can hang back 'round here later, if not, in the morning. S'good to be home..." His watch beeped.

"... And, now, I gotta jet. Love you three!" He hugged his mother and sister, blew a kiss to JB, then dashed down the stairs, and out of the door.

* * *

 

"Would you like some tea, sir?" The stewardess offered. Eggsy stirred awake.

He inhaled. Black tea, from a sterile teapot, and not a decorative kettle. He declined.

He attempted to drift back to sleep, melatonin supplements circulating through his system. In his mind's eye were vacant expanses of nothing but the absence of light: darkness. He plugged his headphones into the jack embedded in the armrest of his seat, and activated the built-in media system.

_"--to the Literature channel. Here is Edgar Allen Poe's classic, 'The Raven,' read by--"_

He yanked the connector out of the jack. He tapped his fingers on the armrests.

"Hi, miss, sorry to bother you," he waved the stewardess over. "Could I get a coffee, black?"

"Of course, sir. Decaffeinated, or caffeinated?"

"Caf, please."

"Right away," The stewardess disappeared behind the curtain.

Eggsy sighed. He surveyed the sleek cabin.

"Pilot, hey!" he called out. "You busy?"

"A little preoccupied, Galahad," The pilot, an older woman, one of the few in the historically-male Kingsman organisation, replied.

"Oh," Eggsy nodded, jaw tightened. "Right. Apologies."

He pressed a button on the side of his watch, and a holographic keyboard projected from the band. He tapped a message out.

_"Merlin - why are you not always my pilot?? - E."_

A tiny vibration.

_"I have many responsibilities as a senior Knight, and, shockingly enough, they do not singularly revolve around you. Enjoy the flight with Helaine. She's a top-notch pilot. And be happy you got an attendant, this time. - M."_

Eggsy ran his fingers over the keys, swiping over the digital surface.

_"I don't need an attendant. I can take care of myself fine. This isn't some pleasure trip, you know. - E."_

_"That's why I made sure you had one. I know this excursion is not easy for you. - M."_

Eggsy frowned.

_"I know you didn't want me on this one, but it's only right that I'm the one on it, innit? Thanks for everything. - E."_

He shook his wrist to deactivate and minimise the keyboard.

The stewardess returned, "Here's your coffee, sir." Eggsy accepted the cup, and nodded.

"Thanks."

He took a sip, and shuddered.

He never liked black coffee, and hadn't become any keener on it as a Knight. Cream and sugar were not looked down upon by Kingsman, by any means, but cream and sugar meant, to him, real cream -- not "non-dairy creamer," or the like -- served in a porcelain cup, and compact little cubes of sugar, stacked in a pyramid, because _"pyramids are the most geometrically sound structures,"_ on a saucer, next to a proportionately small pair of tongs. It meant sitting at the dining table, relaxed, as "proper breakfast" was prepared. It meant putting too many cubes of sugar into his tea -- another thing he couldn't bring himself to consume, as of late -- being lectured about it, and then kissing the excess sugar off of his lips, and onto another's.

From that morning on, Harry Hart owned cream and sugar, conceptually; like cream and sugar, he made even the most bitter tastes seem more palatable, made the hardest truths to swallow go down easily. That ownership was cemented one solitary morning when the realisation that there would be no more breakfasts like that struck Eggsy, not unlike the detonation of a grenade.

Eggsy sipped at his black coffee. After a long drink, he looked into the remainder in the cup. He saw murky waves as he swirled the coffee in the cup with his wrist, idly.

The Thames in early winter. He once, as a teenager, stood by it, and, in his intoxication, considered what would happen if he hurled himself into it. Would he die from the impact, the frigid water, or an infection from the exposure? Would he live for a bit, and then drown, from shock? Could he survive, treading water until he could find a way to make it back on land, or until someone found him there, head barely bobbing above water?

He knocked back the rest of the coffee, then held the cup in his hands. He looked out of the window at turbid sky, an atmosphere made even cloudier through his bleary eyes. He rubbed them.

"Twenty-five minutes until we land, sir," The stewardess informed him.

* * *

 

Churches.

Eggsy counted the number of churches he'd driven by thus far. 20 in under an hour. He grimaced as he passed another one. A procession was exiting from the entrance, pallbearers carrying a lacquered casket. He eased up on the acceleration pedal. Upon closer inspection, the casket wasn't that long, or that large. His stomach twisted, then he hurried past. He pulled over to an empty parking lot, put the car in park, removed his glasses, and sobbed, forehead rested against the steering wheel, forearms around his head, wrists crossed above it.

Ringing in his ears. The bathroom door at their old flat hacked into with a cleaver. His mother's black eye. Dean in the hospital, then charged with domestic abuse. Ringing in his ears.

His personal cell phone rang. He lifted himself up off the steering wheel and answered.

"Eggsy? Hello?" His mother's voice. He uttered a sigh. "What's the sigh about?"

"You dunno how happy I am to hear your voice," Eggsy confessed. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's the matter. I was wondering if you'd make it home in time for supper," Michelle said. "I'm making meatballs, from scratch. Your favorite recipe."

Eggsy felt a lump in his throat.

"Sorry, mum. I'm not going to be back tonight. Turns out I've got more work to do than I thought," he closed his eyes. He could envision his mother's face falling. "But, promise I'll make it up to you. Want anything from over here? I'm going to bring Daisy a whole basket of souvenirs."

"You're going to have her spoilt," Michelle replied. A beat. "It's okay about tonight, love. I'll make extra to put in the freezer for another time."

"You're the best. You deserve a medal..." Eggsy grabbed at his chest upon mention of the word, reflexively. He felt only the crisp linen of his dress shirt. He sighed, again, every exhalation of his a sigh, his lungs suffocated by the weight of the world on his shoulders. Atlas in a bespoke suit.

"I really do worry about you," Michelle said, voice wavering. "I don't want to hold you back like I did when you were younger. I don't. You've done so much for our little family. Got us a home, got us away from... him."

"Mum..." Eggsy checked his watch.

"You travel so much! It's like, ever since that man came around, you've been swept up away from me, and I miss you. _We_ miss you." Eggsy tensed. His watch beeped. Its display flashed yellow.

"Look, mum, I hafta go, but we will talk about this later, okay?" he said. "Give Daisy a big hug for me. Love you. Bye."

He sped out of the parking lot, then back on the road, then out on the highway. Dense thickets of trees lined each side of the interstate, forming washes of indistinguishable foliage. A single waxy leaf in an old jacket pocket. Vast cerulean sky. Hurrying to catch up. A metal road sign.

_"Welcome to Kentucky: unbridled spirit."_

* * *

 

"Why am I here again, Merlin?"

"Because Lancelot had to be reassigned to East and Southeast Asia. She's fluent in Chinese, and conversationally fluent in Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, and Thai, and you are not, so she was better suited to address the pressing needs of that region, on the ground," Merlin replied.

"So, you left the bloody Southern U.S. to _me_?" Eggsy groused. "Got me in Ken-fuckin'-tucky, of all places?"

"After the incident at the church, that region, and that state, especially, has been spiraling out-of-control. We need you to intervene. You were briefed on this," Merlin said. He exhaled. "Just get in, kick arse, get out, and you'll be 6,453.62 kilometres away from there, in no time."

"Yeah, okay," Eggsy replied. "End transmission." He removed his glasses, and pocketed them.

* * *

 

 

"Burn in Hell, you fuckin' queer!" the cult leader, known only as "Jed," shouted as he charged at Eggsy. Eggsy sidestepped, and Jed, a physically larger, in every sense, man, couldn't recalculate his trajectory in time. He hit the wall with his shoulder, and broke through the drywall of the tiny community center.

"I'll see you there, I'm sure," Eggsy rebutted. Jed collected himself, then took a swing at Eggsy. He ducked down, and uppercut the towering oaf, square to the underside of his chin, putting the whole upward momentum of his arm into the motion. Jed staggered back into another wall, the force of the collision bringing down the large wooden crucifix that hung on it. He reached at it, grabbed it, then brandished it like a baseball bat.

Eggsy winced at the sight, but quipped, "You're not a very original bloke, are you? Seen that trick before." Jed swung at him; he dodged it, easily. The man moved too slowly.

Merlin interjected, "Come on, E. Neutralise him. We've got bigger fish to fry."

"Dunno about that," He weaved, disaffected. "This fish looks pretty big to me."

"Ugh. Don't play with your food. Finish this."

Eggsy processed each word individually, then in sequence. He could hear Valentine calling to Gazelle from his control room. He could hear disco, could hear the incessant sound of scraping, grinding metal, could see pulsing lights. Then, a javelin throw; a good, firsthand look at the face of the man who shot Harry dead; a nonstop, white-knuckled blur of empty sex, inebriation, work, killing, avoiding being killed, caffeine, sleepless nights, rinse and repeat, ever since.

Eggsy snapped back into the present.

On the ground by his feet lay Jed, slashed open jaggedly at the throat, then stabbed in the chest. He squinted at the stab site. Not stabbed once, but multiple times, in rapid succession. He felt the light weight of the letter opener, swiped from the community center's front desk, in his hand, fingers coiled around the handle.

"Bloody fucking Hell," Merlin muttered. "I told you to neutralise him, not slaughter him."

Eggsy dropped the blade. He stood, dizzied.

"Jesus fuck," Eggsy said. "I didn't. You know I didn't. I don't. I don't do that."

"I know."

"I got lost in thought, and then -- and then, I don't know what. Fuck," Eggsy ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. "Just get me out of here. Tell me where I need to go next."

"Aye," Merlin said.

* * *

 

 

"If I told you something, in full honesty, would you freak?" Eggsy asked as he drove to the next set of GPS coordinates.

"Depends on the something," Merlin replied. "Look, I have other knights to attend to an--"

"--I think I'm going mental," Eggsy said, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Whatever that was that happened back there, I think I enjoyed it. I don't remember feeling anything other than empty, but it felt good to be empty. I was totally blanked out."

Merlin didn't reply.

"Merlin, please, please talk to me. I don't know what's going on with me," He continued. "I've 'neutralised,' or helped neutralise, dozens upon dozens upon dozens of threats since then, but I've never... took that much pleasure in any of it. Am I a fuckin' psycho?"

"You cannot be afraid of a little brutality, and definitely not in this brave new world," Merlin said. "You're in a fragile state. It's natural to need to blow off some steam, every now and then. The only thing that's important is to, maybe, for your sake, not make a habit of it. Be as clinical as possible, forceful when needed, and brutal only when absolutely required."

"I'm feeling something _other_ than sadness when I figh-- 'manage crises,' now. I don't know how to be clinical about this," Eggsy admitted. "Did we ever get his body back?"

"Eggsy--"

"--Did we?"

"What difference would it make?"

"So, that's a no, yeah?" Eggsy didn't even bother to try to will himself out of tearing up.

"We'll discuss this when you're back at HQ," Merlin stated. "Focus on the mission at hand. I'll check in with you in three hours." End transmission.

* * *

 

Eggsy slammed the car door shut behind him. Leaning back against the car, he reached into a jacket pocket, and pulled out a loose cigarette and a matchbook from one of the many hotels he'd been put up at over the past month. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, and took a long drag from it. He dropped the match, and stomped out its flame.

In front of him was the tattered church he'd only ever seen through a grainy streaming video feed, now live and in color. The bodies that were once piled up inside had been collected by nearby townspeople, and buried in a mass grave, or so the local news report archives had said. He spat at the ground.

"Even those fuckin' hicks got a burial," He seethed. He twiddled the matchbook in his fingers, cigarette wedged between his pursed lips. He struck another match, the flame precariously clinging to the phosphorous head. He puffed out. He evaluated the building. From the outside, he could make out the signs of structural damage that corresponded to the damage done inside: broken windows; holes punched and kicked and pierced and shot through the walls; charred marks from explosives.

He stared at the front door, where Harry had stumbled out of, then, in his disorientation, had been ambushed, and shot, dead. Bodies had been collected, identified, and buried, but not his.

Eggsy blew out the match. He popped open the trunk, and took out the spare petrol can. He opened the can, and watered the wildflowers clustered by the church with petrol. He stepped back, opened the car door, struck yet another match, tossed it on a cluster of flowers, and got in the car.

Flames enveloped the flowers, then crept up to the base of the church, then, in an instant, the entire church was engulfed. He threw his cigarette, smoked down to the end, out of the window, rolled the window up, and sped off, past the vandalised church sign, past the mass grave site, and past the last physical place Harry Hart had occupied on the Earth.

"Of all the places to die," Eggsy said, rolling past the town at, per his speedometre, 150 kph. "What a horrible, horrible waste."

* * *

 

 

"Did you completely disregard what I told you about being clinical?" Merlin's voice rose as he paced. "Do you have any idea of the mess you've made in that town, burning down their little rural symbol of remembrance? You were supposed to subdue, not subvert!"

Eggsy glared up at him, sat slumped in a chair in the office, a familiar feeling reminiscent of many an hour spent in principals' offices throughout his late childhood and adolescence.

"I want to speak to that new Arthur we got," Eggsy said. "Ask them about where the body is, if it's anywhere. Maybe it's off rotting in some field, but I deserve to know, either way."

"You're being obsessive," Merlin stared him down. "You're not the only one who lost him; we all did. We all miss him. I was working with him when you were still pissing in diapers, for Christ's sake. But that doesn't change our duties. That one loss can't cripple this entire organisation, and neither will you."

"I'm not trying to 'cripple' this precious fuckin' organisation, and I-I'm not being obsessive," Eggsy swallowed back a quaking sigh. "I loved him."

Merlin sighed.

"We all loved him."

"--No, you don't understand. I _loved_ him," His shoulders shook. "I didn't realise it until the day before he got shipped off to the States, but, I did. Still do, in fact, which is why this all fucking hurts so much."

Merlin looked away, then nodded, absently.

"That's tough. Doesn't change the trouble you've put us through, here, but," Merlin paused. "I understand."

"I'm sorry," Eggsy offered.

Merlin stood up, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come with me."

* * *

 

 

Subtly sloping, endless hills of dewy grass surrounded them, kilometres away from the city.

Eggsy got out of the car, and followed Merlin up the paved footpath to the ornate stone-and-iron arch of the cemetery gate. Past the gate, the cemetery contained orderly, square rows of gravestones, sectioned off by codenames, indicated at the base of each respective marble pillar at the center of the section. They walked until they reached the Galahad pillar. Eggsy moved ahead of Merlin to search the rows. He stopped when he found the one he was looking for.

He stood in front of the grave wordlessly. Merlin stood next to him.

"So, you've buried him?" Eggsy asked, voice faltering. "Did you have a service?"

"We didn't have a proper service. We were all preoccupied with the fact that the world went to shit, and civilization almost collapsed, and needed to be brought back on its feet promptly. But we did have this made, to memorialise him."

"But, is he buried? And why wasn't I told about this? I could've been here; I should've..."

"It might've derailed you, and we need you to be able to perform capably," Merlin informed him. "To answer your question: no, he isn't buried. He specifically requested to be cremated. A bit new age for my tastes, but it's what he wished."

"Oh," Eggsy's mouth went dry.

"Eggsy, the urn is in that little building down the way," Merlin said. "He didn't specify who should get them, but I believe he would've wanted them to go to you."

Eggsy exhaled, and nodded.

"Thank you, Merlin," He said, nodding faster. Merlin pulled him in for a hug. Eggsy seized up, at first, then let go. He let himself cry, openly, to someone else, for the first time in his memory.

Eggsy pulled away, and wiped his tears with his palms.

"I never cry like this, normally," he half-laughed, shaking his head.

"It's okay," Merlin said. "I get it."

Eggsy knelt down, and read the dates inscribed on the stone.

"It hasn't been that long, but it feels like an age since I last saw him. In person, at least. Seeing him, period -- that's constant. Feels like yesterday, every day," Eggsy murmured. "Why is that?"

"Memory is cruel, and unforgiving," Merlin replied. "Why do you think I tend not to dwell? Forward, always; that's the only way through."

"Yeah," Eggsy stood back up. "Guess you're right."

They stood in silence for a few moments, wind blowing past them. In his travels, he'd almost forgotten how cold it was in England.

"I'm going to get the urn now," Eggsy said. He folded his arms, and walked to the building.

It was an unremarkable, carved Portland stone rectangle, incongruent with the comparative lavishness of the cemetery, and inside, it was sparse, save for the marble flooring and long marble table that rested atop it.

On the middle of the table was the urn: lacquered black glass body, with thick horizontal bands of gold inlay around the mouth and base, and the roundel, also in gold, embossed at the center. It was as classic, elegant, and refined as the man it mourned. Eggsy's hands shook. His stomach dropped. He picked it up, and held it tightly in his arms, fresh tears falling on the lid.

* * *

 

Eggsy looked over the Atlantic, inhaling the distinct aroma of brine. He'd grown so accustomed to saltwater tears that the ocean didn't feel overwhelming, but comforting, a kindred spirit.

He stood at the cliff's edge, urn in his arms, and unscrewed it.

"Here we go," he whispered. He sucked in a breath, and exhaled. "'Til we meet again..."

He cast the ashes off into the downwind breeze. He watched as they drifted down, carried by the lilting air, into the cresting waves below.

* * *

 

 

Eggsy dragged himself through the door.

"You came!" Roxy said, hurrying to the door and helping him with his coat. "You actually came! I'm so glad to see you again."

"Could you sound anymore surprised?" he said, wryly smiling. "Yes, I'm still kicking."

"It's just that I haven't seen you in months, and Merlin told me about--"

"-- Wait a second, Merlin told you about what?" Eggsy hung his coat on the rack by the door. "Are you two chatting it up now?"

Roxy rolled her eyes.

"We're never going to 'hook up,' you," she said, leading him to the dining table. "Stop trying to make us happen."

"I just want _someone_ to be lucky in love," he mused, sitting at the table.

"That's what we were talking about," Roxy continued. "I didn't know... I'm so sorry, again."

"It's okay. I'm," Eggsy sighed. "I'm gettin' through it. 'Forward, always.'"

She disappeared into her kitchen, then returned with a gift bag around one arm, and a covered casserole dish in her hands. She set the dish down on the table, and offered Eggsy the bag.

"It's not much, but I want you to have these," she said. Eggsy blinked up at her. 

"You didn't have to..."

"Just open it, please."

Eggsy pushed past the tissue paper to reveal a pot and a small black box. He removed the items from the bag, and held them. 

"Merlin helped me with these," She pointed to the pot. "That is made with, um, some of his remains, and, when planted, will grow into a maple."

Eggsy pursed his lips, then smiled.

"That's... wow. Thank you. I'll plant it by the house."

Roxy nodded, "Now, onto the box."

Eggsy opened the box.

"We had one of the teams in R&D find a way to expedite the typical process used in making these," she said. "The gem pendant is a diamond made from a lock of his hair. I heard how much you liked the medal-of-valor as a necklace, so I thought--"

"--Rox, this is the nicest gift I've ever gotten," he interjected. "Thank you, so, so much. Like I said: I don't deserve you."

"It's the least I could do," she nodded. "And Merlin helped, too. And Percival. Really, most everyone in Kingsman UK helped, in some way, with figuring all of this out. I'm just the one who had the ideas."

He pulled her in for a hug, a different kind of tear falling from his eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered into her ear.

* * *

 

 

_"... And thus concludes this brief, introductory lesson on the tonal range of bloodstains. Ideally, you won't have to encounter an abundance of them, but this is not an ideal world. So, get on out there, and observe everything you can, even the repulsive, or morbid. After all, the Devil, as it is said, is in the details."_

 

In front of the mirror, Eggsy prepared for another mission, this time in Europe. Slacks pulled on and dress shirt around his arms and sides, he clasped the necklace behind his neck, pendant positioned level with his heart. He turned the pendant over, and etched on the flat, gold back of the circular gem was the date of Harry's death. He turned it back over, and thought back to memories that gradually grew more distant, all the time. The phrase _"Oxfords, not brogues"_ filled his mind.

He looked down at the jewel shining brilliantly in spite of the dusky light of the room. He buttoned up his shirt over the necklace, fast becoming the very image of the man he once again would carry with him everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And that's that. Ouch. Parallelism. 
> 
>  
> 
> Some notes:  
> 1\. A good bit of this relied on external, (admittedly) cursory research, but if there are any factual inaccuracies, especially where the science of blood is concerned, my apologies. I am most certainly not in any medical profession, nor am I a student of medicine or forensics.
> 
> 2\. I am actually not a speaker/reader/writer of British English, but I did try to emulate the diction of these characters, and of the various dialects of British English, and even spellings, as much as possible, so as to reinforce some weird, subtle sense of verisimilitude. If you are a native to the Queen's English, and you're shaking your head at any inconsistencies or misuse... sorry. I really did try, but I'm no Brit, and I'm definitely not posh!
> 
> 3\. I don't know how I managed to take a fun movie with cotton-candy exploding heads; Samuel L. Jackson as not-Russell Simmons; an anal sex joke; KC & the Sunshine Band, and lots more over-the-top aspects, and narrow in on all of the saddest things relevant to Harry's death (because, in a more meta sense, there are throwaway allusions to other sad things, especially where Eggsy's past is concerned). Coming from Marvel Comics fandom, I suppose my tendency is to latch on to angst, and lavish in it.
> 
> 4\. Thank you so much for reading, and putting yourself through this. Now, please, do something that makes you happy. For me.


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